To Drone or Not to Drone? Photographing Postbridge in Dartmoor
Postbridge Clapper Bridge has spent years languishing on my landscape photography bucket list, yet I had never quite managed to capture the scene I held in my mind’s eye. For me, the magic lies in framing both the historic 14th century clapper bridge and the neighbouring 18th century road bridge together in a single shot.
The lay of the land, however, presents a devilish little topographical challenge, a hurdle that could easily be solved by gaining just a few extra feet of altitude. The very altitude, of course, that has been denied to me by a foolish obligation to pay for trivial luxuries like food and shelter rather than vital camera gear.
The Physics of Twixtmas: Chocolate Tins, Photography, and a Trip to Tavistock
In my household, the only reliable way to gauge the passing of the hours is by the steady depletion of the Chocolate tin. You know the stage: that melancholy moment when the shiny, desirable prisms of cocoa and hazelnut have vanished, leaving behind only those sadistic little cubes of coconut ice that no one, not even under the duress of a global famine, would ever voluntarily choose to consume.
Dartmoor Dawn: A (Slightly) Frozen Fiasco
Right, so, getting up. Before the early bird is even hungry. That's a commitment. A serious one. I mean, you've got to ask yourself, is it really worth abandoning the warm, forgiving embrace of the duvet? Hours of internet trawling later – a veritable odyssey of weather apps, each with its own slightly differing take on reality – I decided, yes, possibly, maybe, if I didn't freeze to death, it might just be. A "corker.”
The drive, well, that's a tale in itself. Dartmoor. Easy enough on the A38, all smooth tarmac and reassuringly dull. But then, you veer off. You plunge into the labyrinth of country lanes. These are not your friendly, well-lit suburban streets. These are narrow, winding, hedgerow-choked affairs, the sort where you expect to meet a tractor driven by a man with a suspiciously large turnip. And today? Today, they were lethal. Black ice. The very words send a shiver down the spine. You know the gritters have a very, very long list of priorities, and these lanes are somewhere near the bottom,
And to add to the general sense of impending doom, the sunrise. Oh, the sunrise. It was doing its thing. That glorious, rosy, "you're missing it!" glow. Which, of course, meant I had to drive faster. But also, you know, stay alive. A delicate balance.
Thankfully, I'd planned this expedition with the sort of meticulousness usually reserved for nuclear launch codes. The car park? Practically spitting distance from the cross. A stroll, a gentle amble, a mere saunter to tripod placement. It felt… wrong. No panting, no wheezing, no feeling like I’d just run a marathon up Everest. Even the Dartmoor ponies, those notoriously judgemental beasts, just gave me a casual, "oh, it's just him again," glance.
However, being me, the inner masochist kicked in. “A little walk,” I thought, “a brisk climb up Corndon Tor.” Just to add a bit of suffering to the morning. A bit of, you know, authenticity. So, up I went, pulse doing a passable impression of a frantic tap-dancing team, lungs screaming for mercy. And by the time I'd sorted out a composition, found a vaguely stable rock, and stopped seeing stars, the sun had done its job. It was up. Done. The rosy tint? Gone. Replaced by the harsh, unforgiving light of mid-morning. Another missed opportunity. Another lesson in the fleeting nature of beauty. Maybe next time, I’ll just stay in bed.